


Thermodynamics

by kidskylark



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Depersonalization, Gen, Injury, POV Second Person, Present Tense, Questionable scientific ethics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 12:24:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19295692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kidskylark/pseuds/kidskylark
Summary: PROJECT M.A.E.R.A.: Accessing historical files... Accessed.Begin transmission.Shupaa Becvar is a jadeblood who escaped the caverns, an artificial cryokinetic experiment, and a troll who wants, quite desperately, not to be a troll.





	1. Descent

**> 3\. The entropy of a pure crystalline substance at absolute zero is zero.**

 

You don't sleep.

 

You used to sleep, before. Accessible memory suggests that you slept a few times - approximately a few seasons - after your first operation. You didn't store many things from that time. The data is unclear. From what you can discern, you just wanted the days to pass. Sleeping seemed like a good way to do that. It worked before the implants, after all.

 

But the worlds and stories that once existed, in your sleeping, organic mind were nowhere to be found. As your mind, now partially-computer, struggled to reconcile with itself, the images began to fall apart. Motions became erratic. Images became distorted. Landscapes would crumble as you, in your dreams, stepped on them, until you fell through, and fell forever, until you woke up in a cold sweat. Day after day, night after night, you attempted, again, to sleep. Nothing helped, until, at last, you dreamed of nothing at all.

 

The emptiness - the nothing - was not better. It was cold. When you woke in inexplicable panic, sporadic, throughout the day, you would wake with breath wheezing from your pained lungs. It came out in clouds of frost, which fell and settled on your skin, and the crystals felt  _ warm. _ This, you would learn, was a side-effect of your machines. When they worked, they sapped your heat for fuel.

 

This was uncomfortable. It was undesirable. You hated being awake, but you hated sleeping even more. You went long hours between sleeps, stretching into days, then into weeks... And eventually, that time stretched into sweeps.

 

According to memory, it's been approximately five sweeps since you last slept.

 

This is acceptable. Recharging is an arduous process, without managing constant, periodic wakings and machine malfunctions. Plugging in the machines on your body makes you feel ridiculous. When you're away from the labs, you do it only in the privacy of your transport shuttle, only when you're alone.

 

Once securely connected, you close the files of your memory, one by one, until nothing is left. And that's acceptable, too - because unlike dreams, when you recharge, you aren't facing your memories, replayed in random order.

 

Maybe, on some level, you miss the dreams. Tonight, though, you're certain that if you were able to sleep, only nightmares would await you.


	2. Efficiency

**> 2\. Efficiency of a machine can never reach 100%. Some energy will always be lost.**

 

"We'll start simple," the good doctor says. She writes something you can't see. You aren't allowed to view your own documentation. They say it might affect your performance.

 

She sets a bowl of water in front of you, on a small table. "Calculate the temperature of this, please."

 

You open your mouth. No sooner do your lips part than the air from outside hits the sensors behind your teeth, sending information back to your brain at light speed. It takes a few tries, a few more breaths, to pinpoint the air coming off the bowl.

 

"Twenty-one degrees Celsius."

 

"Good." The good doctor smiles at you. "So to freeze it, you'll need to take it down how much?"

 

You stare at her. Your computers figured out the answer as she was asking it, but she hates being interrupted. "Twenty-one degrees."

 

She praises you only with a nod, then gestures to the bowl. "Well?"

 

In theory, you know how this should work. You've seen the simulations. The issue is, up until now, you've never actually  _ done _ it. You don't know how to initiate the programs involved in cryokinesis. You don't even know where the programs are.

 

So you do what any seven-sweep-old would do: You glare at the bowl, and focus all your mental faculties on the thought of making it freeze. It must be doing something, you think, because the lines in the side of your newly-shaved head are glowing brighter as you do.

 

You do this for several uninterrupted seconds, with focus so intense that you don't notice the first signs of blue on the good doctor's fingertips, until she yelps. It breaks your focus. She moves away from you, from the bowl, shaking out her hand and putting her frozen fingers in her mouth.

 

"Okay!" the good doctor says, as she claps her hands together. "Okay! That wasn't what I asked at all. You're supposed to be freezing the water in the  _ bowl. _ " She jabs her finger at it, like you're a naughty puppy getting into your lusus's things. "You get that, right?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Then  _ why didn't you do it?" _

 

You don't know how to answer.

 

"MAERA: Reset for the test," she says, and the machines in your spine straighten on their own. You sit up because you don't have a choice. The good doctor stands in front of the bowl, gestures to it, then moves out of your line of sight. "Freeze it."

 

* * *

 

Your lusus isn't very loud. She lays with one head in your lap, and one on the ground, as you twist each of her locks individually. She's quiet, and so are you. The voices down the hall are not.

 

"I don't understand it. Didn't you give her the programs?"

 

"They should have been innate. She has access to them. She just isn't accessing them, for whatever reason."

 

"None of us have time to sort through a seven-sweep-old's personal angst. She needs to access them now. We need to test this  _ now. _ We're on a tight schedule, and our next report is coming up."

 

"Have you told her?" That voice is the bad doctor. You know from the way they look at her when she speaks, how she rarely meets with you anymore. The good doctors all hush at her question.

 

"No," one of them responds. "Why would we? She doesn't need our timetable. She just needs to do as she's told."

 

"Maybe she would, if she knew we were in a hurry."

 

"She needs to focus on her work.  _ We'll _ handle the scheduling. She can't even get the most basic functions right, this would only distract her."

 

That's the end. The bad doctor doesn't speak again.

 

* * *

 

The good doctor brings out the bowl. It's filled with less water than previous tests. This is supposed to help it freeze.

 

"Temperature," he says.

 

"Twenty-two degrees Celsius. Twenty-two degrees above freezing."

 

"Freeze it."

 

This is the seventh day of testing. The scientists have done software checks between each, and they know that the correct programs are present. They simply aren't being accessed. No one on the team understands it, so they simply try again.

 

You focus on the bowl. You get a temperature lock on it with the sensors in your mouth, and then you try something new: you blow on it, like cooling soup. It... does nothing.

 

The good doctor laughs at you. "What are you trying to do? It's not hot. Freeze it," he says, and you want to ask him,  _ how? _

 

The green glow starts up in your head again. Again, you focus. If you think of the word "freeze," maybe that would do it? You think on the word, and you think as hard as you can, on every word related to  _ freezing _ , on every step in the process of  _ freezing _ , on the structure of crystals and the formation of a solid, on fluid dynamics and how the cold of the air will freeze the water's surface first.

 

But this is too much data. You tried to think too much. Your skin is burning from the metal, inside and around it, overheating from the sudden strain. Trying to close out of everything in a panic, though, only makes it worse.

 

_ "MAERA: Reset!" _ says the good doctor. He searches for something in a drawer. "Reset!"

 

The override kicks in. Your back straightens like a rail, facing the bowl, looking out into nothing.

 

He comes over to you with a camera. He's filming you. He's filming the way your skin is burning and for once, you realize how ridiculous you must look. Your hair is shaved, you're in a strange hospital gown, and he's  _ recording _ that.

 

"Stop," you say, quiet.

 

"I'm taking a record. MAER-"

 

" _ Stop." _

 

He laughs. "It won't be that long. Just stay still for a second, I need-"

 

Your hand shoots out. You grab the camera, with your palm over the lens, your eyes fixed on his face. It cracks under the strain of your hand as you grip it tightly. You feel desperate. You wanted him to stop. This seemed like the only answer.

 

The good doctor's face turns from surprise to shock as he looks down. You follow his eyes, and under your hand, his is turning blue. When you release the broken camera, ice crystals are sticking out of it, and it's frozen to his hand, impossible to remove.

 

_ "Why you-" _

 

He grabs your ear, pulling your head towards him, and presses your emergency shutdown button.

 

After that, the memory cuts off.


	3. Formation

**> 1\. Energy can neither be created nor destroyed. It can only change form.**

 

The good doctors wear gloves around you, after your outburst. They treat you like liquid nitrogen. Even with your emotional override, they realize their efforts to make a machine, stronger than troll and twice as powerful, may have made something stronger than they can handle.

 

When they aren't seeing to you, running tests and experiments, you have a bodyguard. They change, depending on the day. Your computer parts aren't programmed for favoritism or preferences, but the organic part of you is. Because of this, you find that your favorite days are the ones where Plutus takes watch.

 

Plutus is big, for a cerulean. They must lean deeper blue. Your sensors, at least, tell you they run slightly cold. They have an appointed chair, just inside the door of your block. They always turn the chair so they can sit backwards in it, and cross their arms over the back of it.

 

As you brush your lusus's fur, they watch, with their chin resting on their forearms. Then, without prompting, they say, "You would make a good sculptor."

 

"Why?"

 

They shrug, a half-hearted motion with only their head and shoulders. "You've got ice powers, right? Ice sculptures. People pay a lot of money for those. Blues like to have them on display, to show off how much money they can waste on something so temporary."

 

You, not knowing what else to do, shrug back. "It is not part of my function."

 

"Neither is talking."

 

You don't say anything back to that. Plutus sighs, and decides to make their own conversation.

 

"What I mean is that not everything you do should be mandated by this experiment. You know that, don'tcha?"

 

"No," you say. When they seem surprised, again, you shrug. "It is an answer. Your intention is unclear. Do you need a different answer?"

 

They just rub their face. "Kid, they're going to run you ragged here. Get a hobby or something. As soon as you get out, okay?"

 

"Get out?"

 

"Out in the world. They're not going to keep you in a lab forever, right?"

 

The thought hadn't occurred to you.

 

"There will be matters to attend to, outside the lab," you say, slowly. You know you'll be put to work, when you're capable of working. "Time will be occupied by more pressing priorities."

 

Plutus leans heavy on their crossed arms, sighing through their nose. "It's a decision you have to make, kid. There's going to be lots of those. Just try to make the right ones, as much as you can."

 

You eye them, skeptical. "What qualifies a correct choice?"

 

They look back at you. You think, for a moment, you see something in their face, just before they close their eyes.

 

"Whatever helps you sleep in the day," they say. They stay quiet for a long time after that.

 

* * *

 

 

Lab guards rotate every few days. When you see Plutus next, a season has passed. You're growing stronger, in power and might, and your eyes are turning greener. When they see it, they clap you on the shoulder with a smile.

 

"Look at you! When are they going to let you loose? Have they said?"

 

"Not yet." You can't help it - your mouth mimics theirs, as well as it can, when you haven't smiled in some time. It hurts your face. You stop. "They are devising more advanced tests, and have assigned a workout regimen."

 

"And how is that going? Think you can take me down yet?" They're joking. You answer anyway.

 

"Not yet," you say, again, which makes Plutus laugh. They let go of you, and take up their place on their chair.

 

"Well when you can," they say, "Tell me. Anytime, anywhere. That's a promise. Keep working at it, alright? Oh, speaking of..."

 

You were about to agree, but they start rummaging in the pocket of their coat. Evidently not finding what they're looking for, they try another.

 

"Too many pockets in these damn tactical things," they mumble. It's followed by a triumphant, "here!" They hold out a parcel, no bigger than their palm.

 

They seem to intend for you to take the parcel. You do. The wrapping is brightly colored, with cakes and balloons that say "happy wriggling day!" But between "happy" and "wriggling," Plutus took the time to write the word "HALF" in permanent marker, on as many of the decorations as they could.

 

"It is not my wriggling day," you point out.

 

"I know, but in a half-sweep, it will be, so today is your  _ half- _ wriggling day."

 

"That is not an observance."

 

"Who says?"

 

You try to retrieve data. No results. Plutus takes your silence for a success, and beams.

 

"No one says it  _ couldn't _ be your half-wriggling day today. You've lived another half-sweep. On Alternia, that's pretty impressive! I say it's cause for celebration."

 

You sit, cross-legged on the floor. Your mother wanders over to lay down beside you. "And the observance of half-wriggling days is the same as the observance of wriggling days?" you ask. "This seems illogical. Observances have specific rituals attached to them, intended to be 'special'."

 

Plutus is laughing at you, in their low, soft chuckle. "Listen, Becvar, take it or leave it. You might as well open it! Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, and all that."

 

You give them a very serious look. "If this is a hoofbeast, I will not have the means to care for it."

 

"No, that's not-" They laugh. "Are you messing with me? Quit messing with me!"

 

Satisfied with yourself, you open the package. With your nail, you tear a thin line through the paper, which wraps around the contents of the package until you can open the paper like a shell. Inside is a short, flat jar. The label declares it to be  _ Stripebeast balm, _ made back on Alternia, with varied uses, most notably for pain relief.

 

"You mentioned the metal was heavy," Plutus says, by way of explanation. "If you're getting more active now, it might hurt more, so... I thought this could help. Seems like I have pretty lucky timing."

 

"This appears to be so," you confirm. You store the label information in your personal memory. None of the ingredients seem apt to react with your implants. Still, you worry if the good doctors would take it from you, for your own good.

 

"Happy half-wriggling day, then," says Plutus, as they turn their chair around the wrong way. They sit again, smiling contently, and rest their chin on their arms. "'m proud of you, Becvar."

 

You aren't sure how to reply to that. You can only nod. But in the moments that follow, you store this statement in your personal memory, too - right beside the balm.


	4. Likeness

**> 0\. All heat is of the same kind.**

 

Injury comes with the territory of your work. Your client had enemies, and those enemies tried to hurt them today. In a sense, your injury is proof that your job was complete: You took the injury, so they wouldn't have to.

  
  
Your compatriots still seem upset. Plutus covered your worst wound, but they only had rags and duct tape. Philoh has been watching you with worry, ever since you left the job. Now that you're on the transport home, with access to real medical supplies, Plutus hesitated to remove your current dressings.

  
  
"It feels bad," Plutus explains. They wince as they lift the tape, seeing how it pulls at your skin.

  
  
"You are not the one with the injury."

  
  
"I know. But it feels like I'm taking something from you."

  
  
You have to think about that.

  
  
"Technically, you are. However, skin cells regrow after several sweeps, and cell neogenesis in the skin has been largely preserved."

  
  
They shake their head. "It's not about the cells, Maera."

  
  
"Elaborate?"

  
  
They don't want to talk about it. By now, you've learned the signs. They don't look at your face, and they retreat in on themselves, like a turtle. None of this is an adequate answer, though, and the question nags at you.

  
  
Philoh leans over you. "They're talking about philosophy again," she explains. She's all smiles, always friendly, no matter the situation. You think that might be why Plutus likes her. "Something silly about the nature of trolls-"

 

"It's not silly."

 

"A little!"

  
  
"No!"

  
  
She rolls her eyes, laughing, but Plutus doesn't see the humor in it. They look more distressed than before, and you're content to assume this means you won't get an answer. That's what you've come to expect.

  
  
Instead, Plutus lowers their voice.

  
  
"It feels like I'm taking part of your troll-... -ness," he says, as if he'll be overheard in the empty cabin. "You've already lost so much of that. You shouldn't have to lose more."

  
  
"Any troll nature remaining is irrelevant. You have lost focus on the task at hand." Philoh snickers.

  
  
"Maybe so." Plutus shrugs, and goes back to rummaging in the first-aid kit. "It sure feels like that sometimes."

  
  
As Plutus picks out the tools they need, Philoh ruffles your hair. You fix it. "So you do think you're less of a troll?"

  
  
"It is possible."

  
  
"Don't talk like that," Plutus grumbles. "Philoh, quit it."

  
  
"Let her speak for herself," she shoots back. "That's what you always say, isn't it?"

  
  
"She has nothing more to speak." You don't want them to fight over you. They pause, both watching you, in the moments after your voice.

  
  
It's the truth. Whatever Plutus worries about, whatever Philoh thinks you are, you can't confirm any of it. Existential crises are for trolls who don't have enough work to do. You were made for a purpose. You test the limits of technology on the cutting edge, and that's what you know. To perform those tests, you protect people, you hunt people, and you guard cargo until it arrives safely.

 

Nothing else matters. Nothing else should matter.

  
  
Plutus picks up scissors, and tests them in the air.

  
  
"Alright, well," they say, "in that case, I'm sorry, but please hold still."


End file.
